


Ice in My Womb

by LuciferxDamien



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Drinking Breast Milk, Forced Pregnancy, Human Having Sex With Magical Creature Results in Pregnancy, Impregnation, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Overstimulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Conflict, Unwilling Arousal, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/pseuds/LuciferxDamien
Summary: A monster moved inside, taking up residence, making a nest in the pits of his soul. A creature took root in Jonathan’s belly and he could not say he wished it away. Not entirely.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 393
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	Ice in My Womb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/gifts).



There was ice out, the trees laden with snow and thick frost… 

Dracula’s hand has been as if ice, when they shook hands that first night. 

How long had he been there, now? When had he left England…? 

Jonathan didn’t know. He was weak, weary, listless. On a bed of iron needles, or maybe that was all in his mind. Many things had been in his mind, as of late, that much he knew. Or… 

Did he? 

He groaned, rolling over, feeling sharp, needle like pain in his neck, and _oh_ , that he was certain was real. That he was certain he felt as he forced his eyes open. 

Dark reddish eyes looked down at him, an icy hand caressing down his face. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you…” that honey-sweet voice whispered, his English accent perfect now, forgotten the clunky churning of English as he fought his thick Transylvanian accent. 

Jonathan groaned, his eyes wanting to close, his arm flopping listlessly, moving in directions he couldn’t control as he tried to push the Count away. 

“Oh, shhh… My sweetling, no…” Dracula whispered to him, taking his hand, kissing his fingers with blood stained lips. “There is no need to worry, no…” He grinned, teeth sharp, outlined in blood as he made a meal of Jonathan. 

“L-let me go…” Jonathan tried again, as he always did, every night, every day. 

“Shhh…” Dracula shushed him again, bending down again, pressing his lips to Jonathan’s neck and _prick_. 

The draining, the feeling of warmth and life and soul leaving him, but _oh_ , if there wasn’t something replacing it, a contentedness, a wholeness as he was washed over with dreams, memories…? 

Jonathan made himself look up at the Count again, struggling to breathe, struggling to pull himself from Death’s embrace. “You-you can’t have her…” Jonathan groaned out, but what was he trying to say? 

Who was he even talking about…? He couldn’t picture her face, not anymore. All he could see was the Count and his dark eyes, his wickedly smiling face. 

“Who, love…? I have eyes only for _you_.” Dracula smiled, he pressed his bloodied lips to Jonathan’s and tasted of ash and metal. 

Jonathan groaned, he accepted it, he accepted whatever it was that this kiss might promise him. It was all lies, wasn’t it…? 

A creature such as this, surely, it was just lies he spoke, sweetened with honey and deception. 

But Jonathan opened his legs all the same, letting his barely buttoned shirt be pushed up. He had no trousers, probably hadn’t worn trousers in days, weeks. It was hard to tell, as he was in this bed day in and day out, subjected to the Count’s ministrations, to his cooing words and soft touches of ice. 

He let that icy touch continue down his breast and then the Count was gasping, pulling at his wrinkled cotton shirt, stained with blood and other things. “Oh… Oh I didn’t think this would happen!” Dracula sounded so pleased with himself, pulling at buttons to rob Jonathan of his modesty further, putting his hands on Jonathan’s chest. “Look…” Dracula whispered, and Jonathan struggled to look down. 

He gasped, horrified, mistified. White leaked from his nipples, further staining his shirt an ivory-yellow. “Wh-what have you done to me?!” 

Dracula just gave him a cruel grin. “I didn’t dare to hope that you might produce mother’s milk, let alone before my seed has taken root!” Giddy, the creature was actually giddy at Jonathan’s plight! 

“You’re a beast! Vile, f-filthy, and—aungh!” Jonathan broke off into a desirous groan, just from having Dracula’s firm, ice-like hands on his breast. If Dracula were a beast, what then, did that make Jonathan, for even entertaining the notion that this was pleasurable, nay, _desirable_?

The creature just grinned, leaning down to suck away the leaking whiteness. Dracula gave a sinful groan, no doubt pleased that Jonathan had given him something other than blood to drink now, grinding his hardened erection against Jonathan’s thigh. He pinched, twisted, and forced more mother’s milk from Jonathan’s breast, taking it all, pulling back with a glazed look, sated, monstrous. Fingers pinched at his nipples, collecting the milk before pressing the stickiness to Jonathan’s staunchly pursed lips, though he could not keep the sweetness from seeping between, forced to taste his own shame, his body an abomination against God. 

“Oh Jonathan…” Again that wicked grin as he settled himself between trembling thighs once more. “I think my seed will take root this night, yes?” 

Jonathan could only whimper, what little blood he had left flooding to his loins, raising his cock to hardness against his belly. “Stop…” Jonathan gave out weakly, but Dracula ignored it, he always ignored it, turning away to grab at something, coming back with that phial of… oil? 

Jonathan didn’t really want to know, it was probably more horrible than it appeared. Everything in this place was more horrible than it appeared. The Count, once old, was now young, rejuvenated from Jonathan’s own life force. The paleness of his skin had abated, the apparent feebleness and whiteness of his hair replaced with youth and near-black locks; at least now Dracula’s visage appeared to match the strength he always had. 

Drained and helpless, Jonathan was bound by his own frailty to this bed of misery, surrounded by the most luxurious of linens and baubles, things that Jonathan could only ever look at, never hope to afford. It was a dichotomy, an atrocious contradiction to be surrounded by such fineries while tortured and desolate, forced to endure such humiliations, forced to _enjoy_ his humiliation. 

Pre-seed dripped from Jonathan’s cock, just as mother’s milk dribbled from his breasts and he sobbed. It was awful and he wanted more of it. Never could he admit it outloud, no, it was nearly too much to even think that he could want this, but there he lay, thighs quivering, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as he awaited a rimy touch from this monster. 

It came, cold settling between his thighs, as Dracula cooed. “You still have warmth left in you, my sweet. I’ll keep you straddled between realms, life and unlife to nurture our babe,” Dracula said, a taunt, a horrifying promise as he pressed two fingers into Jonthan’s hole. There was little resistance, it was laughable that his hole even tried to clench to keep those sharp fingers out. 

“Stretched nicely now, aren’t you?” Dracula chuckled, teasing at him, pressing deeper and then rubbing over a spot that always had Jonathan gasping and jerking, sending his cock to leaking. 

Jonathan bared his throat, giving a perverse moan as he was touched in the most ungodly of ways, rough shirt rubbing over his leaking nipples. Though, given that he lain with a demon intent on breeding him, perhaps sodomy was the least of the sins he committed this night and so many other nights. His fingers dug into the bedding, the softness distracting just enough from the onslaught of pleasure that threatened to make him spill. 

And then, Dracula took his hand away, always too soon, always when he was just about to tumble over the edge, enjoying it, even if it was just in his own mind. More oil or vile liquid was poured over the Count’s hand, and then fingers were back inside and it was too exquisite. 

It was corruption in the purest sense and Jonathan gave a broken sob. He let a hand rest over his abdomen, cotton shirt bunched up, feeling movement from within. He was changing, being forced to change. Each night, as the Count drained his blood, planting ruby kisses on Jonathan’s lips, he gave a little back, compelling Jonathan to drink his own tainted blood, but only ever a few drops at a time. It was agonizing. 

It was enamouring, captivating, intoxicating. 

Jonathan groaned, his hole burning as he was stretched. Slick with oil, fingers twisting in the depths of himself. It was deep, far too deep for a human man’s fingers to reach, but then, it was no human sitting bared between Jonthan’s parted knees. 

The wriggling in his gut was felt easily under his palm, much too deep, feeling much too full from fingers alone. Dracula’s other hand came to rest over his own, his dark eyes smiling at him, speaking to him, _only fingers now, my love, but soon more, soon the kick of a babe_. 

Twisting fingers pressed against his insides, withdrawing, pushing back in rhythmically, touching him in places that no man, nor creature, should have rightly ever touched. Less so should Jonathan have found pleasure in it, his breath hitching, all the warmth in his body pooling low in his gut, tingling as he lost all control of his body. The linens ripped beneath his fingers, a strength that he should not have had flowing through his body and Dracula laughed at him, quickening the pace of his fingers, snapping his wrist hard into Jonathan, causing an unearthly howl to erupt from his chest as his sac drew up tight to his body, cock aching, aching, aching until Jonathan jerked and arched, coating his own belly in seed. 

The ministrations continued until Jonathan was keening, gripping at the bedding, ripping it further as milk leaked from his breasts. His shirt did nothing to help, only causing more torment as the fabric rubbed him over and over and over again. Dracula took pity, pulling the stained cotton away from overly sensitive flesh, though he left the two bottom buttons done up, as they were. 

Cold lips attached to one of his nipples, sucking away all leaking milk before attending to the other, back and forth Dracula moved as his fingers continued to torture Jonathan’s insides, forcing more seed from his cock. He was soft, or should have been, but Dracula continued, laving his tongue across Jonathan’s chest as he sucked away all of the sweet and sticky milk. 

By the time the Count pulled away, Jonathan was a trembling mess, thighs twitching, his nipples pert and red with soreness, and _still_ he desired more. His breasts were engorged, the desire to be fondled tugging at his weary mind, daring to long for more, even as his mouth hissed, “ _Leave me be, you foul beast. Touch me no more_.” 

“Oh, Jonathan…” Dracula murmured, brushing the back of his hand down Jonathan’s face, caressing, soothing him. Jonathan hated that it worked, hated the way he calmed, still sucking in air, still fighting for breath as his body tried to recover from his spill. “I could never leave you… And you shall never leave me.” 

Dracula took one of his sharp nails, pressing it over his pale, flat breast, just above the nipple, cutting just deep enough to cause blood to bead at the surface. Breath caught in Jonathan’s breast, his throat raw and aching already as he knew what was coming. It was far more perverse than the Count cutting his lip and kissing Jonathan, and as a strong hand came to grip him at the base of his skull, urging him up by the neck, he was pressed to Dracula’s breast. Urged to drink as if from a mother’s breast… Jonathan sobbed, his cheek against Dracula’s cold chest, lacking the strength to get away. 

Try as he might, lips pursed, the blood still seeped into his mouth, and with each drop that he tasted on his tongue, he craved more. Jonathan struggled as long as he could, sobbing, teeth clenched, but always, always he gave in. He stuck his tongue out, lapping at Dracula’s nipple, taking as much blood as was given to him and enjoying the feel of sharp nails carding through his hair as Dracula made pleased sounds. 

The blood was always acrid, cold. It was repulsive and Jonathan could only hope that one day, he might forgive himself for his weakness in giving into this creature, for, with drinking the blood, came strength into his body, the likes of which he had never felt before. The blood slowed, barely a few drops had been given to him, he was certain it was no great amount and he looked up at Dracula, his eyes pleading for more. 

Dracula caressed his cheek, looking at him as if he were in love and Jonathan found that disgusting, that this monster could look at him in such a way! 

Jonathan gave a snarl, he pushed himself away from the beast, strength coursing through his veins, though he was no match for Dracula, not for a creature that had held such strength in his immortal body for centuries. Jonathan was awkward, trying to scratch at the Count’s face, attempting to throw him off and crawl away, but he barely got to his knees before he was pushed back into the well of his bedding, shirt ripped open, taking the last semblance of modesty Jonathan had as he pushed down by the throat and forced to submit. 

Dracula sighed, looking at him, pitying him. “You know I cannot give you more, not yet… I must keep the warmth in your veins, to nourish our babe.” 

Jonathan gave a rattling sob, his body aching, and damn if his cock wasn’t stirring again! Dracula was still hard, of course, paying himself no attention as he pleasured Jonathan, drove him mad and brought him to spill. It would not last, however… 

He struggled, futile, and once he had fussed himself out, Dracula released him, cooing, coddling him. Dracula always gave him soft touches, caresses, even kisses after Jonathan tried to attack him. It was a cycle, a circle they were doomed to repeat, and Jonathan feared such a fate. Jonathan calmed, shame tinging his cheeks red as his cock rose once more and Dracula gave him a small smile. 

“Soon, my love, soon…” Dracula was coating his own cock in that fluid, slick as it was. He wasted no time, pressing the tip against Jonathan’s twitching hole, giving him no pause, before he sunk in fully. It was painful, it stretched a place that was not meant for this, and Jonathan reveled in it, groaning, fisting the torn bedding with his weakening fingers as he was penetrated, taken and used for this creature's perverse pleasures. 

Whatever strength was given to him in bloodied kisses and forced feedings was always short-lived. A surge of strength, followed by a weakness that left him at the mercy of this monster… It was maddening, to be caught in this ebb and flow, and Jonathan feared he might lose his mind to the relentless tide. 

Dracula gave a shudder, his long hair falling in his face as he bent over. He was a thick man, well endowed and _hard_. Dare Jonathan say, desirable. The stretch burned, even as the Count used his fingers, sometimes for agonizing hours, it still burned and stretched, his hole forced to accommodate the intrusion. 

It was gentle, at first, it was always gentle, Dracula whispering to him, coaxing him to relax and relent, and _then_ it would begin. Hard snapping of hips, that thick cock sliding in and out of his body as perverse, slick sounds filled the room. 

Jonathan knew from the roughness of his throat that he was contributing to those perverse sounds, moans and groans escaping, unbidden. His cock stood proud, far too proud, leaking pre-seed as shudders of pleasure shot through his body. 

Dracula drew back, nearly slipping from Jonathan’s hole, licking his lips, stilling himself, making Jonathan wait for what was to come next. His breath hitched, the anticipation tingling in the back of his skull. Anticipation he couldn’t bear to admit to, the desire of what was to come, and perhaps, the thrill of the unknown. 

Such excitement, such trepidation! 

Jonathan was filled, Dracula driving in deep, thrusting hard. The feeling of fullness brought tears to the corners of Jonathan’s eyes, a sob catching as his eyes rolled back. He felt limp with pleasure, his hips going numb from the cold, solid body thudding into his own at a constant, unrelenting tempo. 

There was the urge to clench, to force the beast from himself and cease this ungodly behaviour, but his muscles refused to listen, his hole used and open. Jonathan felt his cheeks growing hot, his sac drawing up on its own, the only pleasurable touch given to him from within his body, when Dracula’s cock struck at that place that sent colours and lights dancing behind his eyelids. 

A strong hand wrapped around his cock, stimulating him, forcing him to spill and clench and writhe as Dracula continued to pump his hips into Jonathan. He cried out, he arched, his own seed coating his belly once more and Dracula laughed, breathy and light, almost airy and divine. Dracula took his seed covered hand, pressing it into Jonthan’s belly, rubbing the slick into his skin, no doubt feeling his own cock moving within Jonathan’s body. 

It wasn’t enough that he was forced to endure this, oh no… He was made to enjoy it, and truly, Jonathan did, bucking, grinding, anything that his spent, frail body would allow as Dracula continued to move within him, _but_ just when it seemed he was on the edge of expiring, on the edge of being able to take no more and draw no further breath, there was a _surging_ of strength and vitality in his body. Something pulsed deep, and vaguely, Jonathan was aware that the Count had spilled. He was too far gone, too lost to a swirling, overwhelming _something_ to pay proper attention to what was going on and… 

Something was inside of him. Something that had tried to take root so many times before, only to fail and die off, too frail, too incompatible, but this time, oh no… 

Jonathan swallowed hard, feeling strength returning to his body. After every coupling, this had happened and just as with the bloodied kisses, the strength would flee as quickly as it came, but not _this_ time. 

Jonathan lifted his hand, no longer shaking, no longer feeling frail and as if he was weighted down by stones, and he touched his stomach. Dracula grinned, his dark eyes looking proud, defiant. 

“Do you think it’ll be a girl, or a boy, Jonathan…?” Dracula asked and Jonathan wanted to sob. 

Coldness was flowing from Dracula’s body to his own, the ice filling his veins, and taking up root in his belly. There was life there. Or unlife, as it were. An abomination, a pure defiance to God and… 

And there was life and vitality in Jonathan. Pulsing, living, _growing_. 

“Come spring, Jonathan… I think we’ll have a child of our own,” Dracula whispered, placing his hand over Jonathan’s as he laid down with him, pulling the bedding up high. “When the blossoms of apple, plum, cherry, and pear scatter across the lands, lighting the mountains in colour and _life_ , bearing _fruit_.” 

There would be a child, and Jonathan sobbed. A monster in his body, _of_ his body and… 

And Jonathan could no longer say that he was not a monster, entwined with Dracula as he was, in every possible way. 


End file.
